


they tell me your blue sky's faded to grey

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Silmarillion and Other Histories of Middle Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are good days and there are bad days, with Maglor, and this is one of the bad days.</p><p>Daeron does what he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they tell me your blue sky's faded to grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdviserOfImladris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdviserOfImladris/gifts).



There are good days and there are bad days, with Maglor, and this is one of the bad days.

When Daeron gets home, there's uneaten food on the counter and a half-full glass of water on Maglor's bedside table. Maglor's curled up on he other side of the bed, not asleep, just staring listlessly at the wall.

Daeron doesn't ask if he's alright; he knows he isn't. Instead he takes his time, gives Maglor a chance to adjust to his presence — takes off his leather boots without unlacing them, pulls his black skinny jeans and boxers off in one efficient motion. The _Evil Blonde_ shirt he happens to know Maglor likes, so he leaves it on.

Maglor still hasn't moved. Daeron would be concerned about that, but at the moment other things are taking up more of his attention: the blank look on his harpist's face, the dull cast to dark brown eyes, the pallor of his skin. The stillness specifically isn't quite as much of an issue.

But Daeron curls up next to Maglor, chest pressed against his back, a layer of worn-in cotton and nothing else between them (because they've been dealing with this bullshit and bullshit like it for millenia now and they haven't let it pull them apart yet) and Maglor does move then, unfolding his legs and straightening his spine to press their bodies even closer. Daeron can't see his face but he's fairly certain Maglor's smiling, or at least not as frighteningly blank as he was before.

"I love you," he says, lips brushing the nape of Maglor's neck as he speaks.

"I love you," Maglor replies, voice quiet but not dull. It's exactly what Daeron's been waiting to hear, and he sighs in relief, the warmth of his breath curling against Maglor's skin.

Daeron hates days like this. No matter how many times he comes home to find his lover safe and healthy and _fine,_ he'll always worry: that someday he's going to lose him, that Maglor will fade, that Maglor will simply tire of him and vanish into the wind. The good days, the ones when Maglor laughs and dances and sings, certainly help -- but not as much as Daeron would like them to.

Today, though, they're safe and home and together, and Daeron wants nothing more.


End file.
